


Do Not Delete

by jackotah



Series: Nothing Made Me [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Sherlock, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Extremely Mild Sex Stuff, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Meltdown, No Spoilers, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, SPD, sensory processing disorder, shutdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackotah/pseuds/jackotah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was another 20 seconds before John fully realised where he was, and, to his credit, he handled it rather well. John sat up a bit, grunting at his shoulder, neck cracking, his weight shifting back onto his hips, which didn't exactly dampen Sherlock's arousal. Carefully, John peered up at him, his face bearing the impression of wrinkled fabric, and Sherlock allowed their eyes to lock for a moment or two before extinguishing that privileged contact with a slow blink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Delete

"Out!" John said firmly, pushing Lestrade out the door and toward the stairs.

"What- how was I supposed to know-" Lestrade stammered.

"Trust me, it's for your own good. I'll text you tomorrow," John replied before shutting the door in his face. John turned back toward the sofa, toward Sherlock. His flatmate had his fists full of his own hair, tugging hard, his knees drawn up and the long lines of his body hunched forward.

John opened his mouth as if to speak, to tell Sherlock that Lestrade hadn't realised, couldn't possibly have known the impact of disturbing the careful balance of Sherlock's... things. _It won't help_ , he thought, glancing over at the offending table, its previous contents shoved aside in order to make room for the stack of files Lestrade had brought. Greg knew Sherlock well enough- he certainly saw deeper than most- but he obviously didn't have quite the insight John had once assumed he had. No, only John seemed to be the one with that knowledge now. Maybe Mycroft. He groaned at the thought.

So John made an educated guess and moved to turn off the kitchen light, as well as the lamps in the sitting room, then closed the doors to the kitchen quietly. He drew the curtains to block the light from the street below. _Yes, this this ought to help_ , he thought. It had been one of those 'off' days. One with disturbing violin screeches followed by somber melodies with a dash of biting commentary and a tendency toward violence. One where Sherlock mentally and physically seemed to collapse in on himself. It hadn't just been the files, no. He glanced around, checking for any other sensory input he could extinguish. Finding none, he turned back to Sherlock who was now emitting a low, guttural, almost inaudible moan. 

John's eyes widened at the sight of his flatmate and his fingernails scraping across his forearms. Pinpricks of blood were slowly sprouting from his skin. In four strides he was across the sitting room and crouching in front of Sherlock. "No, no, no...don't..." he spoke in a low tone, resisting the urge to reach out. (John recalled pressing Sherlock the last time and the pained explanation: _"Sometimes a gentle touch is... unbearable, John."_ ) Sherlock's eyes alternated between wildly searching and clamped shut.

John's mind raced, and he wondered if that's what Sherlock's mind felt like constantly. ( _What had he said...? "Like an engine, racing out of control."_ ) John had taken it upon himself to research, after the last time. He had suspicions, but as a doctor he had still felt odd mentally assigning a diagnosis to Sherlock that he truly had no knowledge of. Disorders of that kind were far beyond his realm, and he knew it. But he didn't know what to do, and Sherlock certainly hadn't told him what to do. And so he felt he had to at least try.

He didn't think he was entirely off base. Mycroft had alluded to... something, in the past. Something similar. Mycroft's true intentions never quite surfaced, but his words had been almost begging John to pick up on the hint. ( _"My brother,"_ he'd said, _"is acutely aware of what he doesn't understand. I'm sure, in a way, you are also aware."_ Mycroft had turned to leave, then looked back. _"But he's an extraordinary actor, my dear brother. Don't let him deceive you."_ )

Sherlock had done that his whole life it seemed. Leave a very convincing trail to an incorrect conclusion in order to protect himself.

His focus snapped back to the present. His eyes trailed across Sherlock's bloodied arms, his friend's desperate tone moving something in him. He made his decision, and if it was the wrong one- again- well...

"Sherlock," he murmured, keeping the volume of his voice low and as placating as he could. "I can't let you do this, but maybe there's something else..." John moved to sit on the sofa next to him, careful not to accidentally brush against him. "I think you might like it. It will be an experiment, at the very least."

(John imagined what Sherlock's sarcastic reply would have been, had he been able to speak: _"I daresay, John, what IS your hypothesis?"_ )

"I'm going to touch you, but if you don't want it, that's okay." John nodded once, steadying himself, then moved his arms fluidly, engulfing Sherlock's shoulders in a tight embrace.

He waited a few moments. Sherlock's body was rigid, John had never felt anyone so full of tension. _Had he done that? Oh, Christ, this was an awful-_

Just as he was about to pull away, lamely apologise, and leave his flatmate to fight this alone as always, the scratching slowed significantly. Warm breath puffed regularly, if a bit too quickly, against John's arm as Sherlock breathed. John couldn't see, with his face toward the wall, but Sherlock's body began to relax. Almost imperceptibly at first, but after a few long minutes the scratching stopped completely. Without loosing his grip around his friend, John ventured to press his right leg firmly against Sherlock's back. That was as close as he could get to a tight, full body embrace, given the position and his rather modest flexibility.

And so John held him as tightly as he dared. For minutes or for hours or for days, he wasn't sure. Sherlock's body was hot and somewhat sweaty but far more limber beneath his grasp by the time John's shoulder began to make its displeasure known.

When he spoke his voice was hoarse, but gentle: "Sherlock, my shoulder is killing me-"

Sherlock's body tensed again, as if predicting the loss of contact.

"No, it's okay. I'm not leaving." He gave Sherlock another squeeze, his shoulder protesting strongly. "We just have to move a bit." John lifted his head and searched for a pillow, found one behind him, and reached for it. Grasping the edge between two fingers, he tossed it to the other end of the sofa, behind Sherlock. "Can you move? I think if you just lay back..." Keeping a firm grasp on one of Sherlock's arms, John gently uncurled him, pushing him back toward the pillow. Sherlock's body resisted, as if rusted at every joint, but eventually he laid back, legs stretched out toward the other end, his navy blue dressing gown spilling over the edge of the sofa and brushing the floor. His eyes were sealed shut and a slight tremor vibrated through his body.

John hastened, rotating his shoulder a couple times and then speaking, "Again, if you don't like this..."

John tossed his right leg over Sherlock's, straddling him, and then lowered his body directly onto his friend's. As he positioned himself, his hair brushed against Sherlock's jaw. As if electrocuted, Sherlock's body jerked and his grey eyes shot open, looking wild, almost betrayed.

 _Fuck._ "I'm sorry. Here, here..." He slid further down, so that his head rested heavily on Sherlock's bony chest, a safe distance from his face. His left hand sought out Sherlock's right, found it, and squeezed firmly. 

A few moments later, Sherlock softly squeezed back.

\--------

Sherlock was always surprised when he woke up. It wasn't really the fact that he was still alive that shocked him (although in the past, it certainly had been), but the fact that he had actually slept. He lay still, eyes closed a moment, observing. _The street outside is quiet, no scents wafting from Mrs. Hudson's flat, indicating the early hours of the morning, or perhaps late hours of the night._ It depended on your perspective, but that line of thought was boring. Time was only maths.

It was only until he drew in a deep breath and felt resistance that he remembered. His eyes shot open.

_John._

Somehow his senses had lost track of his body's borders with John's weight heavily against him. With his eyes now open he could feel those stations flickering back online, ready to defend. There was no need, really. John's body was hot but pleasant against his own, still lining up rather squarely except for his left arm which had slipped off the edge of the sofa and was dangling down by the end of Sherlock's dressing gown. John was still sleeping, not snoring but roughly puffing air through his lips. His face was turned away- a pity- though he had been drooling somewhat, Sherlock could tell through the faint dampness of his own t-shirt. His automatic response was one of disgust, but he calmed it, pushed it down, for John.

_John._

Sherlock's arms had snaked their way around John at some point in the night, his fingers laced together at the top of John's back. He stretched and flexed them, but they remained in their current state against John's jumper. His eyes were dusted with salt and somewhat itchy from the tears that had slipped silently from them the night before, but Sherlock didn't dare move. Not for the world.

33 minutes later the beginnings of dawn crept through the thin slit between the curtains. 

57 minutes later, John's heart hammered a bit faster against Sherlock, and he roused slightly, pulling in a deeper breath and performing one of those brilliant whole body stretches that started in his neck and proceeded as a wave down toward his toes. The feeling sent a heat through Sherlock, ultimately pooling at his groin. He rather doubted John would notice, in his present barely-woken state, and so he pushed it from his mind, somewhat successfully.

It was another 20 seconds before John fully realised where he was, and, to his credit, he handled it rather well. John sat up a bit, grunting at his shoulder, neck cracking, his weight shifting back onto his hips, which didn't exactly dampen Sherlock's arousal. Carefully, John peered up at him, his face bearing the impression of wrinkled fabric, and Sherlock allowed their eyes to lock for a moment or two before extinguishing that privileged contact with a slow blink. _Yes, John. I'm in control. Thank you._

John nodded softly to himself, as if approving of what he had seen, and then settled back down, adjusting slightly. In an effort to make himself more comfortable, John had made his own arousal rather prominent against Sherlock's thigh, though it didn't seem to phase him. Sherlock relaxed at the thought.

John cleared his throat a bit and spoke to Sherlock's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock sighed. _If such things were only that simple._ "If you could be more specific, John, please."

John was quiet a moment, then said, "Is what you're experiencing now an improvement over last night?"

"Yes." Sherlock's left hand slid up to the back of John's neck where it rested carefully before applying a gentle pressure to the muscles there. _Show him you care. Show him that you appreciate it._ His fingers worked in deepening circles, then smoothing strokes. Silence.

"You're rather good at that," John finally hummed, turning his head to face the other way, presenting Sherlock with the other side of his neck. 

"I'm completely making it up. Feel free to advise." Sherlock's fingers began to seek out the knots on the other side of John's neck. "Fitting of a fool to sleep with his neck craned around like that."

He felt John smile against his chest.

The sun finally did make it's appearance- as much as the sun did in England- but neither of them moved. Cars rumbled away outside, boring lives began again. Mrs. Hudson eventually stirred downstairs, singing a tune Sherlock couldn't quite place. It didn't matter. _John is here, I can touch him. That matters._

"Did I... help you, last night?" John asked, breaking their silence again. His foot twitched nervously against Sherlock's own. In response, Sherlock enveloped him again in his arms and squeezed.

"I don't like it when you do that, you know," John said, voice muffled.

Sherlock stiffened at the words, a fortress slamming sharply into place in his mind as if spring loaded, prepared to isolate the vulnerable areas he had so carelessly left undefended. "When I do what?"

"What you did last night."

Sherlock was on the verge of fully bristling now. "I can't very well stop it, John." His voice was clipped.

"No, no... I know that, for Christ's sake." John sat up a bit, that damn weight in his hips again... But he didn't meet Sherlock's eyes, thankfully, instead stared wearily down at his shoulder. "I meant when you hurt yourself."

_Oh...._

"It scares me, you know." John continued. "What if I hadn't been here...and you had been alone..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. Sherlock slid his hands down and held John gently around the ribs, counting them, searching for the right words. Really any words at all. He ventured a glance at the slightly blood stained bit of his arm peeking out from his sleeve, but it offered him no advice.

 _How to respond and not scare him off?_ "I don't mean to alarm you, John, but I've handled it alone far more times than you could imagine." The exact number pressed on the borders of his mind but he refused it. _I don't count such things anymore._

"But that's just it then." John did look up then, his face so very close to Sherlock's. "I don't want you to handle it alone. I don't want you to feel like you have to handle it alone."

Leave it to John, his dear soldier, to find the weakened link in his defenses and poke at it. Sherlock leaned his head back as if in pain, away from John's eyes, away from the mess that was _emotion_. Tears pricked at his eyes nonetheless, his mind clouding, his body betraying him yet again.

He heard John lick his lips, and then: "What is it Sherlock? It's okay to say it."

A tear did slip past him then, and John quickly but gently brushed it away with his thumb, as if to pretend it hadn't happened. _For my own sake, surely._

Sherlock couldn't possibly expect him to understand, let alone accept, that sometimes the words weren't there, that sometimes things were indescribable. But dear god was John trying, his bleeding heart leaving a trail behind him. Sherlock's own heart hammered, skipping against John. _The words were right there, why couldn't he grasp them?_

"No one... has ever..." -he swallowed thickly- "said anything like that to me... before." They weren't the right words, but they were close enough.

John looked sad as he sighed, he could tell that much. _How can he be so sentimental, so profoundly open?_

"You'll have to show me how to help you somehow." John said at last, settling down on his side between Sherlock and the back of the sofa this time. "It doesn't have to be with words. But I don't want you to hide it. You're safe, here... with me." He gave a little nod, as if signaling the conclusion of his emotional outburst.

Sherlock's body warmed at the words, at John's hand circling at his celiac plexus and then finally coming to rest over his heart, which surged to meet the contact. He closed his eyes, memorizing every part of this, every part of John pressed against him. _So this is what it feels like, to be safe_. He gathered the symptoms in his mind and sorted them. John's head found a home in the hollow of his shoulder. Sherlock filed it all away carefully, like a cherished keepsake too fragile to keep out in the open where it may be jostled and broken.


End file.
